


against nature

by bloomingg, superfrog



Category: BLACKPINK (Band), EXO (Band), SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Arranged Marriage, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Fantasy, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-12-06 20:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11607981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomingg/pseuds/bloomingg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/superfrog/pseuds/superfrog
Summary: duty dictated their marriage. against all reason, they really shouldn't have fallen in love.--supernatural + royal AU.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on an AU of our respective OCs.

A seven year-old prince had no place in the humid meeting rooms and gilded halls of the elven palace. He liked to believe that he perfectly knew where things should and should not be, and he certainly knew where _he_ belonged. It was definitely not with human-loving elves, or with parents who disregarded him whenever the Elven King, too-bright and always too kind, entered the fray ( and the prince did not like to be ignored in the shadows ). His place was with himself, where it should rightfully be. He was in his best moods alone. He did not need parents or brothers or friends, all with words that he did not want to understand ; with actions he understood too well ; with things and gifts and offerings, as if apologising for his future duties, though these could not be changed.

Yixing was much more content kicking his feet and letting the tips of his fingers graze against cool shafts of light in the forest. There wasn’t as much foliage in the north, where such things went to die ( or so he heard, and with much pride ). Now, instead of spindly, thorned branches, it was leaves and flowers and plants he had no name for. They might have livelier colours in the day, but he was only ever allowed outside during dusk, especially now when they were in foreign territory.

Still, this was much more fun than staying indoors, where it seemed to be daytime all the time. All the light here seemed more valuable than gold. He pretended to gather it, and trap it in his palms, not letting a single ray slip between his fingers; and, when he opened them again, he continued on his quest to find everlasting light.

Brightness became more scarce as he ventured further into the nighttime forest.

At home, this was when he would see the lights in the city of humans twinkle below the castle. They used fire to keep warm and alive, and the only means of getting it is from the benevolence of his kind, because they were foolish and cruel and banal. In this land, Yixing couldn’t help but cringe at the sight of elves and humans touching skin – the mere memory of it had him shivering in disgust.

Soft moonlight illuminated a wider area before him, and he was sure that he hadn’t wandered too far, so a little more couldn’t hurt. It felt oddly like the pull of the sun during sunrise: that forbidden moment when he looked too long at something that could turn him into ashes without meaning to; that beautiful thing, just peeking through the curtain of a weeping willow, softer than the drapes in his room, not shying away from the creeping shadow, moving ever-closer.

She turned her head to look at him, as if she’d always been followed by monsters, and beckoned him forward with the softest smile he’d ever seen.

Around her was moonlight, draped on thorned stems. These were flowers he’d never seen before, too, and ones even he, the crown prince of the dark kingdom in the north, was afraid to touch, not because of their thorns, but for fear that he would be engulfed in radiance, or that they would disappear if any inch of him touched them.

“It’s alright, you know.”

Flowers couldn’t speak, but the girl in their midst _could_ . Yixing flinched, as if the sound itself _was_ sunlight. Upon blinking and narrowing his eyes at her ( more so out of embarrassment and the need to make it seem as if he wasn’t embarrassed at all ), she seemed just about the same age as him, if not younger. She wasn’t made of light, as he might have thought upon first glance, but normal skin and bone, and tipped ears – an elf, straight from books on history and battle, except this one didn’t wear intricate armour, and certainly wasn’t taller than him, and did not have blades blessed by magic, and pointed teeth.

To her credit, she’d never seen a boy with such pale skin, hardly dressed in any colour. His clothes seemed to her too thick to be worn in the eternal springtime. He was clearly a foreigner, but her mind, too addled with the brilliance of his eyes, couldn’t find itself afraid of the tall(er) creature standing amazed at the sight of her favourite roses, definitely _not_ like the shadow monsters preached to them as dangerous.

There was no fire coming out of his mouth when he spoke, at least.

“You can make moonlight grow,” he blurted out, stepping a bit closer, smiling ever-wider. “You must be the sun!”

“The sun is in the sky, silly!” Perhaps it was his insistence – no; his excitement, surely, that fueled her own, and she stood from the ground and brushed off grass that clung stubbornly to her dress. “I’m right here!”

“R-right...but you’re an elf! You have the sun in you.” This was no speculation. His mother read it to him once before sunrise, so it must be true. “Are you a princess?” he continued, without waiting for her to speak further, as if this would curb his growing mortification at his own silliness. He wasn’t _silly_! “I’m a prince! One day, I’m going to marry a princess.”

That declaration only made him puff out his chest in pride ( just a little bit ), and she laughed at that, too. What a funny pale boy he was. “I have to marry a prince, too. Somewhere far, far away,” in the sky, perhaps; it would be quite nice, “so I won’t know him until we’re _really_ old. And then we can marry and be in love...”

“ _Gross_.” He stuck his tongue out, as if he was just another street rat, and laughed again.

They would’ve kept talking, perhaps, if his ears did not pick up the dawning cacophony. The sounds of boots were too heavy to be made and worn by elven guards, and his retainers, surely, would sniff him out soon. For a moment, he debated on staying there, but a glance at the moonlight scattered at their feet told him to move.

“I...I have to go,” he told her, looking again to the darkness, and stepping back towards it. Some instincts could not be helped, and the princess, whose name he did not know, took a cautious step away, towards the ring of roses at her feet, sensing danger only by the look on his face.

“You didn’t even tell me your name!” she exclaimed in protest anyway, little fists at her sides, and a more noticeable pout daring to form at her bottom lip.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Nothing had ever sounded more like a broken promise to a princess who believed in _tomorrow_ s all too much.


	2. Chapter 2

A procession of light made its way through the forest, down the dark cobbled main streets, devoid of cheering, with no sense of festivity in the already-gloomy air of the Northern Kingdom. It almost did not feel like it was a wedding that would only happen once every ten generations. One might think there would be more joy and excitement in the otherwise bleak north, but the golden princess was not disappointed by the scenery because she  _ knew _ what to expect. Warm welcomes surely did not fit the picture, neither in illustrated tales, nor in the flesh. 

Princess Rose was nothing more than a prisoner of an ancient tradition: the promise of a never-ending meal ticket for  _ monsters _ , in order to ensure generations of peaceful co-existence between their two kingdoms. It had always been so, and the young princess had no choice but to bow her head to duty, to her people, and to the future of peace. 

Golden hair framed pink cheeks, her face the very portrait of youth and beauty, yet the darker, more somber gaze was directed out of the window of her carriage at the pale faces of vampires and humans alike. They either gawked or sneered at the long line of golden haired elves atop their white horses, and the white chariot carrying their eldest princess, trailing behind its escort. There was no joy that usually accompanied a royal wedding, for this was not just any royal wedding: this will be the union of the north and the east. A union, although beneficial to both, did not strike lightly in the hearts of the people. 

This was a marriage of  _ necessity _ ; that much was obvious, both to its players and spectators. 

The dark towers of the menacing fortress loomed into view, the sun tucked safely behind gloomy clouds. The procession of pure white-and-gold glimmered brightly as it crossed the cobblestone bridge and into the courtyard, letting its light glow just a little bit harsher amidst the fog from the depths of which stood the royal family of vampires, who ruled the north: his majesties, the king and queen, their two sons and prized daughter. The eldest prince ( the  _ crown _ prince ) was noticeably out of sight, already in place inside the great hall, ready to welcome his bride to their wedding. 

Rose took a deep breath and turned her head at to face her mother and younger sisters. They all nodded solemnly, and the youngest, Princess Lillian, shed a lone tear. 

“Smile, my darling – it is your wedding day,” her mother murmured, in her quiet, reassuring tone, as if they were still tucked away in their ivory castle, in beds breathing flowers, where the sun shone brightly through wide open windows. But this place was not the Eastern Kingdom, and the trees did not sigh in contentment as helpful elven magic strengthened its roots; this was where light withered under darkness. 

The carriage doors opened before she could return any sort of sentiment towards her family. The princess bit her tongue, took another deep breath, and stepped out of the carriage, knowing full well that this would be the last time she would be permitted to have a completely private audience with them. She head held high as she was escorted by her father along marble steps, and past engraved doors, to a room that undoubtedly led to a much larger, grander hall.

Immediately, dark eyes rounded upon her. From the corner of her own, she could see one of the young princes take a step back, blinking uncomfortably at the light emanating from her pure white wedding gown, and even saw a guard or two hiss at the their elven counterparts, who firmly stood their ground despite being in foreign territory. 

“Your majesties.” 

Her father, the elven King of the Eastern Kingdom, nodded his head at his Northern counterpart. They said nothing in return, but regarded their new daughter-in-law with what might be appraisal. Rose did not shrink under their gaze, feeling undeniably pressured into the same silence, but stood steadfast and firm beside her father, eyes only slightly downcast to show respect. 

“The ceremony is already underway. You must wear your veil now.” The Northern queen spoke in a thin, reedy voice, finally blinking away from her golden hair and glancing at her husband instead. “You are to enter with your father before joining the prince by the altar, where the union will take place.” 

_ So this is how my life will be _ . A flash of calm understanding washed over her:  _ I will be told what to do instead of being asked _ . 

It wasn’t like she expected anything remotely warm. She reminded herself of this time and again, but the sting of reality did not abate in the slightest.

Nevertheless, she did as was told, still too aware of the attention on her every move, and lifted the veil from her head, and allowed it to fall, quietly, over fair features. Nothing other than calm submission glossed over the covered surface. 

The doors parted for her and, once again, she found herself holding onto her father’s arm. 

Her spirit felt dwarfed as she walked under the high arches of the long, hallowed hall. It was splendidly illuminated, though only as much as chandeliers can allow, for there was no light to be had from windows that were just as tall and high, and some figures in the corners of her eye stood purposefully in the flickering shadows of the clustered columns, upon which another level of spectators stood murmuring. Heavy, velvet drapes hung readily at the lip of the balcony, where the light found no reprieve. There was no enchantment in the overwhelming smell of hydrangeas and peonies centered at the northern end of the hall, framed by the stained window that towered over them all, depicting some struggle, or perhaps a union, of the two races present at the solemn ceremony. 

They were led forward by the King and Queen, as was tradition, and her mother and siblings trailed behind at a considerable distance. Slender fingers attempted to grasp at her father’s sleeve, as if that would calm her, but the patriarch remained steadfast, as was expected of the king of light amidst creatures that thrived in the dark and the cold, eyes glittering the colour of nightmares just at the edge of her vision. 

Only when they reached the end was she made to stand and rise on her own, and even then, only for a moment; another step, and she was at the side of her  _ husband _ , whose face she could not gaze upon once the Overseer allowed them to utter their vows. The Overseer, face covered with a mask, was undeniably one of  _ them _ : his hands were too pale, his movements too stiff, his voice ringing throughout with the coldness of the night.

The man beside her spoke in a tone that caused her heart to twist..

“I, Prince Yixing, crown prince of the Vampire Kingdom of the North, of Eternal Winter, of Endless Night, vow to maintain faith and love, through grief and joy, through illness and health, through wealth and poverty, forevermore.” 

There was hardly a pause, an imperceptible one, and in that glittering fraction of a second, Rose wished that the prince would not continue – “I am willing.”

So, then, that was her cue. There was no music to fill the momentary silence. All the murmurings in the background seemed to her like the sound of her future. This was tradition. This was what must be done.

“I, Princess Rose, first-born princess of the Elven Kingdom of the East, of the Eternal Spring, of Endless Light,” she had to swallow, to remember, to overcome the sickening pit in her stomach that reminded her that she was renouncing this title to be  _ something else _ , “vow to maintain faith and love, through grief and joy, through illness and health, through wealth and poverty, forevermore.” 

And, hands firmly clasped before her, spoke the words that would bind her to this union forever: “I am willing.”

As if in practiced unison, they turned to each other, and she with more dread than most, allowed him to lift the veil from her face. A slight brush of his fingers caused her muscles to tense more so than they already were. 

Unlike her, however, there was no ripple of emotion upon his stern features, as if nothing could disturb the handsome surface. His brow was not furrowed, and had it not been for the physical contact, she would have believed that he had simply stepped out of a portrait, dressed in an elegant suit that squared off his shoulders, and fitted with the bright rubies that held no match for the hungry gazes trained on them now. The crown prince of the North did not smile, nor did he frown, or give away any indication that he felt her flinch; even more so, there was no shyness to his countenance when he offered his palms for her to hold, as if offering comfort out of politeness. He neither seemed uncomfortable nor overtly confident in his performance. In fact, he seemed, more well-versed than she was in marriage, for the sake of maintaining peace and the balance of power in their respective realms. Surely, this was his first time as well?

Her gaze stopped short at his mouth, not daring to rise again to meet his own. Once – a fleeting moment – was enough.

“Now, in this newly-joined in this union, before your subjects and your kin, signify the strength of the vows which you have promised.” 

A hand that supported her own regrettably lifted to cup her neck. Bile rose where he touched, and she swallowed thickly, fighting every bursting urge to escape, to run far away; else, to ask him to tighten his grip, so that she may no longer live with the shame of wanting to shirk their shared duty. Yet, he was gentle, and urged her to tilt her head to the side. He kept her firmly there – her warden, now – and paused, lips grazing against her skin. ( She might’ve been fooled to think that he was on the verge of saying something important; it was truly a blessing that she did not hope, and was not disappointed. )

_ I am willing, I am willing, I am willing _ –

That did not make it hurt any less.


	3. Chapter 3

To everyone else who did not enjoy the benefits of being the crown prince of the North, they probably thought him undeserving of his position, not because of the amount of power he held, but the way he utilised them. Their resentment was precedented by the inherent expectation that he would be as ruthless with the rabble as his father was: actively going outside to hunt down the pretentious band of rebel ‘Hunters’, perhaps, or conducting daily feasts in order to reiterate what only  _ he _ could do. 

But these were expectations that were fulfilled by his brother in his stead. Yixing was more commonly found keeping the younger prince  _ out _ of that kind of trouble and into the war room. He was the one who refused to indulge in the benefits of being  _ him _ , and instead chose to leave his brother bruised and battered in a light-hearted sparring session ( the Queen wouldn’t let him hear the end of it ), or crash any ‘parties’ thrown haphazardly by the boy ( twenty was such a troublesome age ), or chasing his much younger siblings in order to obtain his glasses from their sticky little claws ( being a vampire with astigmatism really hurt his reputation ).

Now, though, he was just itching to get out of the raised platform. His arm was only just beginning to ache after holding it up for the past hour, and the wizened tailor seemed intent on keeping it that way for a much longer period of time.

“My arm is about to fall off.” 

“Oh, good.” Soojung, to her credit, seemed unfazed by the exaggeration. In fact, she seemed much more interested in the fabrics for her own dress, and registered his  _ actual _ statement a few seconds later, after looking up and seeing the dissatisfied scowl on his face. “I mean, that’s  _ bad _ .” 

“Your best friend is about to get married to a tree creature for  _ peace _ ,” Yixing pointed out, like he had just tasted stale blood, “so it’ll be appreciated if you show a little bit of concern for me, instead of your dress.”

“What I wear is of extreme importance. It’ll definitely be better than whatever you’re wearing.” 

Still, she lowered whatever it was she was holding and, much to his relief, the tailor allowed him to lower his arm, too. Yixing chose not to glare at the older man, and stepped off the platform instead, waving him off to indicate that he was finished for the day. His shoulder had begun to ache, and he couldn’t spar with Krystal at his full capacity at this rate, especially when it left a dull throb when he put on his coat.

“Just remember that you’re not allowed to outshine the bride,” he reminded her, undeterred as they stepped out into the cool corridor. 

“You’re going to marry a walking chandelier. I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about,” she teased in return, to which he scowled at again. If he could blush, he would’ve.

“It’s my duty,” he insisted, and remained as tight-lipped as ever. For the first time that day, he dreaded stepping out of the pedestal, knowing that it would be another step towards a prison he could never escape. “So it’s something I definitely have to worry about.”

“Just...tell me how she tastes like. I heard their kind are  _ amazing _ .”

 

––––––––––––––––––

 

He did not bite.

It was a small incision, a quick and clever movement of his thumb slicing across fair skin. She hardly felt it, and it was over the second she let her lids close. Instead of a ring around her finger, she received an embroidered cloth around her neck, and swelling music around them, not of her own imagining, to celebrate what seemed to further strengthen her life-long sentence. 

Caution and awkwardness went hand-in-hand in the hall once the festivities began. 

There were no swelling crescendos now. The music quickened as an attempt to be lighter than the rest of the room, but the tension remained just as thick. It was obvious that even the finest warriors that the elves brought with them have not been in such a grand hall filled with their natural enemies. Even more so, the shoulders of many seemed tense. The women hardly danced with others that weren’t their own kind, and if they did, it was, perhaps, out of politeness, and to be able to announce later on that they have conquered the difficult challenge of touching their counterpart without wanting to tear them into shreds. Rose could see now that her more adventurous sisters attempted such a thing, and turned, afterwards, to their mother. 

How she wished she could do the same!

Yet her arm was still hooked onto her husband’s, and as they did their procession around the hall, he said nothing to her, but rather at her, or about her, as if she had no voice of her own. No matter how much she wanted to run to her own family, or to her trusted protector, the choice was no longer hers to make. 

All those her husband introduced to her had the same dark eyes, the same red glint, hardly visible with the light she carried with her very being. The faces of some seemed displeased; others, eager to meet the bride, and held her hand for too long before the prince resumed each painstaking conversation, no matter how short. 

Her feet began to ache.

Yet, in no time at all, Princess Rose had to say goodbye to all that she ever knew. It was time for the light of her family to depart from her life, and she had to stand steadfastly still: a lone candle in the darkness of the night. 

Her parents approached her first. 

It took her every ounce of strength she had to keep her own tears at bay, with her mother’s own so clearly glinting under the dim light, yet this attempt proved even more difficult as her father took her in his arms, letting his warm hands rest on the crown of her head for a lingering second before releasing her. Her sisters were far less composed. 

The elder few took her shakily into their embrace all at once, but it was her youngest sister that let out a barely audible sob, breaking the princess completely. In all her nine young years, there was no inconceivable reason for Rose to leave their home, not even for the sake of tradition or peace, and the eldest princess had no words to soothe her, for she could not even soothe her own heart. 

It was then when a lone tear streaked down her golden features, meant for her youngest sister, too young to understand the weight of duty.

 

––––––––––––––––––

 

They disappeared into the night. The procession of light retreating back to their kingdom of eternal spring; leaving their brightest light to burn bright amidst the cold darkness of winter. Rose shivered then, the cold air piercing the stone walls of the hall. She felt more alone than ever, especially under the heavily scrutinizing eyes of her new public, her new family, her new husband. 

The Crown Prince who stood to the side as his bride’s family bade farewell finally reappeared by her side, an overwhelming desire to replace what ever affection that she had just lost; but how? He was not the type to say soothing words, much less outwardly display such damning emotions in front of his whole court. But his heart — as cold as it was — felt pity for his beautiful bride. For she is beautiful, such words would die on his lips for the would always be insufficient; Prince Yixing could do nothing more than to let his eyes linger seconds too long, drinking in the beautiful embodiment of the sun. His wife. 

He took her by the hand then, cautiously, without a word. It was expected of the newlyweds to skip the festivities surrounding their union to retire to their chamber, a symbol of a lusty prince ready to produce the future heir of the kingdom; and the wife was to follow, dutiful as ever. Rose’s heart jumped at the sudden contact, even though her features stayed calm and composed. The very picture of a perfect wife, for she had always been taught to be one; come rain or come shine. Music ceased almost immediately, as the court turned to bow at the new royal couple as they made their way out of the hall; with a handful of attendants in their wake. 

Cold fingers clasped the warm rays of the sun between her fingertips, and the young bride had to stop the shiver that bloomed up and down her arms at the sudden chill – she must learn to get used to the feeling. Corridor after corridor flashed and disappeared with every expert turn of the castle, and in no time at all ( as if her fluttering thoughts could distract her from the darkness that lurked from every solemn wall, every peek of moonlight that streamed through stone windows ) they stepped into a beautifully decorated bedroom. Ceilings as high as they could go, sparsely decorated with intricate ornaments; with a great four-poster bed on opposite wall. Princess Rose stared morosely at the throne of a wife: the place where she shall fulfil her duty, and the only thing she could be thankful of is that it was _ her _ fated for such great things. Her younger siblings could not possibly imagine her fate, much less be submitted to her future, for they are much too soft hearted and weak-willed to do so. At least, that is what her father had murmured into her ear on her very last night in her hometown, surrounded by flowers and the light of spring. 

Yixing looked down at her then, just as the great double doors closed behind them with a silence that rang louder than the fluttering beats of her heart. For the first time that night, she looked back up at him -- the picture of golden youth, beautiful in every way. It was difficult for him to not stare back in awe ( cleverly disguised as polite interest ). 

“My lady, if I may– ” 

Cool fingers left her small golden ones and travelled down to her waist, reaching back to tug gently at the ribbon tying up her corset. Rose became the very picture of a blushing bride, not helping the flustered little thither that escaped her lips as she sharply turned around in his grasp, eager to quicken the process as much as possible. His fingers worked quickly, seemingly without any hesitation ( as if he knew exactly what to do, and how to do it ), but his expression gave nothing away, as if he was un-bothered that he was stripping away her dignity, shackling her with every terrible coldness of their union until he’s atop her and there’s nothing but the freezing sheets of their marital bed.

_ Their _ bed.

His mouth betrayed the harsh grip on the satin below her. Suddenly everything was uncomfortable: the wrinkles forming against her skin and the mouth, though gentle, made her body flinch, and her thighs tremble as he touched them, and parted them that no magic could charm: only forcefulness that caused her to bite into her lip, to close her eyes with the single, sinking thought that this will be tonight, and the rest of their nights afterward. 

_ Forevermore. _

Neither of them said a thing.

Not when the weight of him pressed against her, on top of her, inside her.

Only then did her lips part; a sound might have come out that caused him to hesitate. He paused, and she had neither strength nor will nor energy, as if this was some unholy bond that threatened to sap the life out of her, blood or not. And when she did nothing and held on tightly to the luxurious cloth beneath her, he moved again.

_ I am willing, I am willing, I am willing _ .

She could not say it. She had no mind to.

Everything hurt. Every single thing was on fire, and was heavy, and threatened to crush her with the sheer force of it. Every whimper that threatened to escape her trembling lips were muffled under her palm. She could not gauge whether he was gentle or angry, and if she had opened her eyes then she might have seen him look at her without indifference for the first time that night; 

if she had removed her hands, and if he made her do so, he might have even kissed her.

The most gruesome, horrible part of it was that, through the tears aching under her shut-tight-eyelids, she might have been grateful if he tore her apart then. The bed whimpered, too. 

She thought she might faint or vomit or cry, but she didn’t. She prayed, then, to gods, to light, to everything that could’ve saved her, could’ve kept her from giving her consent if she knew how this could hurt so terribly, and how long it would take, and how much wetness there suddenly was between her thighs when it ended, an eternity-and-a-half later, with his face at the dip of her collarbone and a terrible mess between them both. 


	4. Chapter 4

Yixing settled in before she stirred awake.

The deafening thrum of her nightmare made him shudder; it gave him pause, just at the doorway, like she hadn’t been having these moments every once-in-a-while over the past few months. It wasn’t that he didn’t care: he was too tired to.

Marriage was exactly how he thought it would be.

Roseanne would wake just after dawn. She was an early riser, and Yixing, after their first night, had learned not to be bothered by it. She had become, in such a short time, the weight on a bed that only disappeared when he closed his eyes, though it would never be long before he saw her again. No matter its inconvenience, Yixing made the effort to schedule time with her: at least an hour a day, in a library. Anything else was dreary, and was even more so during settling dusk. They would sit there, facing each other and not quite so, in their reprieves and their seats, until the time came when she had to excuse herself for whatever dinner the cooks have prepared, and he would retreat to whatever business he had to attend to.

It always seemed so mundane. The organisation of human cattle, as they were, didn’t need to be supervised more than they already were. The humans, as far as he could see, knew their place. They knew that they were beneath the superior species.

Yet, somehow, some master would complain to him about a human stealing bread, or asking for more food, and Yixing, unrelenting, would decree it so. It didn’t earn him the respect of his kind, of course, or gave his father the impression that he would be well-loved, but his people were creatures driven by need. They all were. Keeping their livestock healthy and alive was a vital factor of survival.

And this troubled him, too, when he opened the door and saw Roseanne, sleeping peacefully with no care for such matters, telling him none of her opinions, and never open to hear his own.

Marriage went with silence, even as Yixing undressed to his more comfortable clothes and stained the wash basin by their bedside with the blood on his hands, and at the edges of his mouth.

In the adjoining room, his dinner was left wanting for nothing.

Here, he could not say the same.

Here, their bodies remained a big cross on the bed, sacrilegious against their marital duty, tailbone against tailbone when they laid to rest.

And, somehow, it always returned to the openness of the morning – an affirmation of the truth, witnessed by the first to rise, and the first to break.

 

––––––––––––––––––

 

Roseanne saw him again when she awoke, facing the dark drawn drapes that coated his –  _their_ – quarters in the shadows he thrived in. She did not turn to him immediately; a sharp, alcoholic smell clung to his clothes, with an undertone of rust. _Blood_. There was never any need to identify the smell before.

Humans waited outside her door, right after the first lark’s call. They bathed her and dressed her, and no amount of gentleness, she found, could keep them from being as cold as their masters. They walked with her until the gardens, where she wasted her time in the company of people who would only speak to her to advise her that she had to leave.

She expected him to be more forthright, more willing as she to fulfil their shared responsibility. She expected to wake to see the horrid sight of her blood at the edges of his lips, and not someone else’s from the adjoining room. Roseanne did not sacrifice the rest of her life with him so that she could only see him when she arose from bed or, rather regularly, meet with him at the library at dusk, reading together in silence without performing the duties of a husband and wife wed for the sake of maintaining hierarchy and tradition and peace.

To add insult to the injury, Yixing seemed to make no effort from keeping his pleasures _quiet_. Nearly every night after the first, she would hear human women losing themselves in absolute ecstasy, from passions that her own husband seemed unwilling to give to her.

It would have been understandable if his behaviour was attributed to their different lifestyles. Yixing stayed up until sunrise, and would hardly wake until late afternoon. Only then would he retreat to have his _meals_ , his rare-made delicacies in the form of tittering young women who were dressed better than the cattle they were, then to the library, then to his office. Roseanne was not jealous of this, but rather, that a crown prince had his duties to his people, and wasn’t made to abandon them.

Rose, for her part, did not in the very least waver from her resolve. Her body healed from his hands quickly enough after he took her for his own, and showed her the banality of his people. Her heart might have quaked, but only slightly, and not enough cause for her to go running back to warmth and goodness. And her soul was surely intact. She felt no inclination to empathise, only to sympathise, and even _that_ was a stretch – perhaps their people were truly made to never understand each other.

She almost hated him.

Almost.

But here, her work was clearer. The gardens wasn’t so much a garden as it seemed as a graveyard. The long, lanky lines of long-dead trees didn’t seem as inviting as a maid made it seem, as if lying about it would make it less disappointing, but not any more surprising. All the roots were as withered and as worn as the fences that were kept up only for show, as was the smooth garden path that looked to her as if no one had dared tread into this space – and why would they? This was not a land of perpetual darkness, as titles would often suggest, but this was one that thrived in the hours that it was, and people hardly came to the least-maintained and closed-off parts of the castle grounds. Behind her, the fortress of stone and spire barred any vision beyond it. Roseanne did not wish to see, either; she was aware of the eyes of cruel monsters wanting her company for something else.

Instead, her hands went quietly to work. Soft light emanated from the tips of her fingertips when she touched dead ground, and for a moment it shuddered, as if experiencing warmth for the first time after prolonged winter. It calmed her, too, and brought her thoughts away from whatever or whoever lay behind her back, and for a while, she didn’t realise that the sun had begun to sink. Her work, after all, was before her, and no one can fault Rose for lacking any initiative.

“It’ll take you an entire lifetime to bring any sort of life back to this place.”

A small yelp cut through her throat, covered quickly by dainty hands. Her body, of its own volition, stood to face the source of sound.

No footsteps heralded the arrival of the man before her, who looked equal parts amused and concerned, as if he did not know which one to be. She’d seen his face, and exchanged pleasantries.

 _Prince_ Wen Junhui, by the king’s consort, looked every part her husband’s brother. They shared the same dark hair, and deep-set eyes. He clothed himself in a shade blue a tad lighter than black, and his expression was more comely, more friendly. He reminded her of the smiles of young, gallant soldiers who seemed the type to sneak out in the middle of the day to shirk their duties and flirt with who-knows-who, and for that, she kept her hands clasped against her chest, as if he might steal her heart.

“Your Highness,” she addressed, cautiously, “I did not –,”

He smiled even wider, as if this caused him such amusement, and shook his head, causing her to stop speaking. “Don’t be so formal with me. We’re family now, you and I. Please – call me Jun. Or ‘brother’, at the very least!”

“ _Prince_ Jun,” she conceded. There was indeed virtue in establishing good relations with her husband’s family, but there was certainly no need to be so open with him, either, even if he was the first who spoke to her so calmly and so freely without an entourage of sullen, drained humans nipping at his heels.

Turning again to the patch of ground, she might’ve smiled – the change might seem imperceptible, but there were certainly less weeds, and the earth seemed healthier – but she looked to the prince again, not expecting him to see any difference at all.

“It won’t hurt to try, Prince Jun. I have a lifetime here, after all.”

He remained quiet, then, smiling as if he pitied her, “My brother won’t appreciate your efforts, if you’re thinking about it.”

It was as if he knew where to strike where she didn’t expect him to, and she certainly didn’t expect it to sting as much, either. Her husband certainly showed no degree of romantic affection. It was out of duty, through-and-through, and she wasn’t hoping for him to ever appreciate whatever efforts she exerted while he slept the day away.

“I’m not doing this for him,” she stated, head held high, ignoring that light pang in her chest. Her hands fell before her, still clasped together, but no longer as defensive as they were. “I _must_ do something to spend my time here, must I not?”

“Ha! I’ll make sure to tell him that!” Somehow, when he laughed, it was no longer friendly. It almost seemed condescending. Perhaps, however, she wished too much to understand the prince. He and her husband were closely related, after all, and both, it seemed, had every intention to remain an enigma.

“Alright, I must agree. I applaud your efforts,” he spoke again, giving a light bow, and was more amused now than he had been when he surprised her, as if her _efforts_ were something to laugh about so terribly. Despite herself, Rose couldn’t help but frown a little. If she’d been less trained, she would’ve left in a huff. Instead, she stood her ground, and raised an eyebrow at his demeanour until he calmed himself – quite quickly – and a servant whispered in his ear. “Ah, my brother’s calling for you. I think you must go and keep the crown prince company when he so pleases.”

 _Despite herself_ , Rose almost felt a little disheartened. His smile wavered – she noticed such small things – even as she nodded. “If you’ll allow me to take my leave…” was really spoken out of politeness.

Yet, he answered again, “ _If_ it were up to me, your highness, I wouldn’t allow you to leave at all.”

 

––––––––––––––––––

 

He was hardly awake.

Zhang Yixing, first of his name, crown prince to the Northern Kingdom, could hardly keep his eyes open, for the life of him. He didn’t dare face his father yet – the tyrant would find some way or another to punish him, or humiliate him, as if he wasn’t doing that to himself enough. But he got himself ready for another full night, and though he shouldn’t, this was, at least, one of his more favourable portions of the day. He always made sure to look presentable when his wife entered, and even made sure to have a drink or two to seem a little more energetic, though there was no particular need to be.

Appearances were still important, even in front of the woman who’ll share a bed with him for the rest of their lifetimes.

Besides, he had to _at least_ try not to look like the monster she might’ve imagined him to be, especially when she always entered the library with that post-charm glow. It worried him: it made her stand out from the dreary crowd, like he knew it would; like a beacon calling to the bloodthirsty.

“I was told,” he began, foregoing greetings entirely, and made a point not to look at her face. He didn’t need to. There’ll always be that expression – underlying hatred that he was sure existed; the slight crease on her brow; the immediate return to calm placidity that her eyes always betray – and he’d seen enough of it. “that you’ve been around my brother. Is that true?”

“I’ve spoken to him today, your highness.” She sat herself across from him, as always. Her voice was vague, so he looked up, and found that her expression betrayed nothing today, nor did she continue the conversation. She said nothing of what transpired between her and his brother, but he remained undeterred.

“Don’t trust him.” It wasn’t a request, nor a command; more so a warning. There, now – there was the slightest bit of concern. Or was it confusion? What a baffling thing, yet he supposed it was foolish to expect anything more. “Whatever he says of anything, don’t believe a word of it.”

He hoped she would provide some information, then. Had his brother poisoned her opinion of him? – No, there was no opinion to begin with. He was her husband by title, by duty, but never beyond that. He was sure she felt the same.

The dark rims of his glasses slid down a little as he returned to his book, and they both said nothing more, until Yixing, again, found it in him to break the silence.

“I have a... _surprise_ for you.” He didn’t look up then, either.

Instead, he reached beside him, and rang the bell for the servant, and whispered in its ear a command that had the silly thing scurrying away.

Her concerned expression was the most he’d seen since their wedding night.

“It’s nothing too terrible, I assure you. In fact –,”

The door opened, then, before he could say anything by means of apology, and her face, as he expected, brightened instantly. There was a smile he had never seen aimed at him, and instead at the soldier from her kingdom who stood at the doorway, mirroring the expression of adoration and affection in his wife’s smile. He didn’t have any right to be envious of it.

After all, _he’d_ been the one to request this particular man – a trusted companion, he elaborated in a letter to her parents, to keep her safe while he slept. By all means, he should’ve at least reproached her for getting up so quickly, for ignoring him completely; he should’ve said no when she asked, excitedly, to be excused with her new guard (although he guessed that this wasn’t new to them at all). He should’ve done plenty of things, he supposed, but none of them could make her seem so content as Sir _Choi Seungcheol_ could. There was more in her then with that man – more Roseanne, more elf, more everything – as if the entire room lit up when she smiled and dimmed again when she left.

No, he couldn’t do anything at all.

This was the right choice, he deemed then, and convinced himself of it now, when the doors shut, and he was left, again, to look at the open page of his book.


End file.
